The Madness of a Fiend
by Dooko
Summary: An unlikely Judge battles old friends, and his own madness.
1. A Long Time Coming

( Square owns everything, even nonsensical things such as this. I may end up rewriting these first two bits to better sync up with the third and latter.)

The first time the Judge sees his old home, it is from high above the desert sea. Ever shimmering, ever defiantly the city sparkles amid the dust covered dunes like a misplaced jewel. It has been years since he has set foot on its sand-strewn cobbles, and if the assembled armada before the city has its way, it will be years still.

The line had been drawn. History would be repeated. Last time he had been a bystander, a victim, a nobody. That had all changed. Things were different now. _He_ was different now. There would be no mercy. There would be no staying hand of a guilt-riddled Emperor to hold the conquest at bay. This time the fires of war would consume those that stood in its path; he would see it so.

And not for the first time he wonders what madness has led him here.

A decade ago, he had wanted nothing more then simple freedom. But freedom is never simple; a lesson that had been hard learned. He had stood by a future Queen, amid fallen knights and pirates alike, but there had been no freedom there, just a different form of servitude. He had been outclassed, out of place, and out of view. But he had watched; he had learned. By the end, he had still played his given role, but his eyes had moved elsewhere.

The serpent crest burns his hand, tearing his mind away from the memories now belonging to someone else. The voice—ever slithering, ever whispering—comes to him, telling him to give the command. And when his hand drops, a thousand cries ring up as the hell begins.

The sky is awash with explosions as his fleet bombards the sky. Peace has no patron this day, the voice gleefully tells him, even the gods have fled. He tries to ignore it, instead wishing he could be down there, in the thick of battle. Not out of some misguided sense of valor or glory, but for pure greed; to get in his share of the killing.

It is unexpected when the battle lasts on into the twilit hours. His former people fight on courageously against the invaders, against the Empire, against him. But as the explosions die down, the inevitable proves itself once more. There would be no victory for his homeland today.

When the gates finally fall, he makes sure his is the first foot inside the city. He wishes he could say it has changed. That it is no longer the city he once knew, and that is why feels nothing while watching the burning fires. But he knows the truth. The city has not changed; he has.

It is by his crested hand that the palace doors are torn from their hinges. The satisfying crash they make upon hitting the ground reminds him of a promise fulfilled. This is what he asked for.

He feels unstoppable when he sees the remaining defenders scatter before him, each having made the choice between heroic last-stand and seeing one more sunrise. His soldiers swarm past him with every intent to make their victory absolute. The cost of defiance would be made clear this night.

The first time he was in the palace, he had willed each step like a frightened rat. Tonight, he strides through the hallways kicking in one door after another. The search is on, and he knows that which he seeks is near. For now, there exist nothing else. Even the voice has grown quiet. Perhaps it, too, understands he is somewhere beyond listening.

His first surprise does not come until he steps into the royal throne room only to find it completely bare. The mirthful vision of a once-companion at his feet, of a Queen on her knees, is stolen from him.

He is not happy.

The next surprise soon follows when two familiar faces drop from the shadows. One is the mentor he never asked for. There, time has left its stain —the eyes are older, the scars deeper—but the recognizable arrogance remains. The other is the vision of feral beauty that his youth once craved. Ever did she exist beyond the reach of any measured clock, and ever would she remain so.

He can tell his old acquaintances are pleased to find him alone; undoubtedly expecting this to make their task much easier. He does not back away. There is no reason to. It was not he who fled their last encounter. The serpent crest flares, and he coils back into a formless stance. His arms snake out from under his cloak; each bearing a fang of metallic death.

No one speaks. There is nothing left to say. It had all been said long ago.

The woman comes at him with a spear. Every attack plunges toward him with fierce accuracy. Striking as she would any other hated enemy. Any sentiments of the past had long since been discarded. He sees an opening and lashes back, only to find her partner there to greet him with his usual coy grin. Now he remembers why two always worked in tandem; each to protect the other.

No matter. He has two arms for reason.

Soon the palace hallways are filled with the clash of metal against metal, an ethereal score to their calamitous waltz. In time it leads them across an outside balcony. Where, beneath the pressing night sky, a loose tile causes him to stumble. It is all the advantage the timeless woman needs.

The spear drives deep, piercing his shoulder. He can only scowl as he feels the blood seep beneath his armor. He looks to her and sees no hint of satisfaction, only resolute determination. He feels disgusted. He has had enough of this, enough of them.

He throws his weapons aside, and raises his fist. The serpent crest erupts and he growls as the sinister flames engulf his hand. They could match the man, but could they withstand the fiend.

Unbeknownst to him, the two have seen their task done. And so he receives one final surprise when a small lander soars overhead. When he looks down, a cloud of smoke erupts at his feet. Long has he hated deception and distractions, and he realizes his old acquaintances are still annoyingly skilled at both. Enraged, he wildly swings his way through the haze only to discover he is alone once more.

"I will find her someday," he yells against the night. "You hear me?"

"But not today, little thief. Not today. . ." a mocking voice calls back, fading into the distance.

When his soldiers find him, the Judge is slumped against the rail. His wound is not fatal, but it does not need to be. Completely Hume he may no longer be, but even devils have their limits. And far has he been pushing his lately. Before his soldiers help him into the palace, the Judge glares one last time up at the night sky.

He will not rest for long.


	2. Old Allies,  New Plans

(Square still owns everything. Even weird "What If. . ." bits like this. I'm not sure what to classify this as, really. I just settling my own Halloween urges.)

-

It takes days for the Judge to awake. When he does, there is no surprise in finding his wound healed. In its place a large gangrenous vein stretches to below his waist. If nothing else, the voice is generous with its gifts.

The room is despicably modest. He feels slighted given his rank. But it has a water basin, and right now that is enough. The mirror is unwelcome. The cursed things always try to show him someone else. A thrown chair soon settles the matter.

The Castle is alive by the time he leaves the room. Soldiers carry all manner of insipid things along its hallways. Many servants have returned—the price of patriotism may be high, but the value of a cushy job at the palace is immeasurable. They are polite to him. One or two even bow. In some way, he feels welcome. That troubles him.

The meeting is already taking place when he sits down. The table is long, and the faces are old. Each has taken a stake in the proceedings, and each feels theirs is the only voice worth hearing. The racket is deafening.

When it is over, he is approached by the only remaining Magister. A man who would seem the fool if not for his uncanny habit of outliving his peers. Even so, they both know who the Senate's black hand is. They walk along the courtyards, away from undeserving ears.

"A splendid piece of work," the Magister finally speaks. "Many have been impressed by your success."

"I simply followed orders," the Judge slightly nods.

"Beyond the outer walls, much of the city's infrastructure remains intact. A fact that will no doubt ease our transition to power." The Magister then pauses, ". . . As will the revelation of the former Queen's hidden generosity."

"You have learned of something?" The Judge asks, the irritation in his voice evident.

"As we suspected, much aid was flowing in secret to Rozarria at her behest. When her people learn of this, the fallout should serve us well," the Magister muses. "It seems fellowship is not such a favorable trait in times of plague."

"Then the blight proves a blessing twice over."

"Indeed. For once the Draklor budget has been well earned."

The words come lightly, easily overshadowed by the distant cries of jubilant children beyond the walls. War is a cover; a visual aid for the repressed. Real conquest is born of dark deals, and soft words. It is in this hollowed state that madness brings clarity.

"We should attack immediately."the Judge speaks boldly.

"And under what pretenses?" the Magister asks. "We've no more Emperors to be assassinated, my friend. A pity since otherwise I doubt the Senate could make much of a case for open war. "

"So we are to do nothing?"

"For now. Soon we will openly approach the Rozzarrian King with a miraculous cure. He dare not refuse given his peoples desperation. Then we will press our advantage—as an ally, no less."

This is not what he wants to hear. Gutting the Rozzarrian King has long held a special appeal to him. To be denied it upon everything else. . .

"In the meantime, the Senate has heeded your request. This kingdom is placed under your authority. They have even gone so far as to deem you a full Magister," the man says somewhat bitterly. "A promotion I do not take lightly, but one I must welcome. One Magister alone cannot protect an empire, especially from itself."

This news is welcome. With rank comes power. With power comes . . .options, the voice whispers. When he leaves, the satisfaction he feels makes a worthy counterweight to the prior days loss.

-

As the hours pass, the Judge takes to wandering the city. It is not until the sun disappears that he realizes where he is, a place best forgotten. For here, in a city beneath a city, rumors can carry swiftly. Silent faces follow his every step, eager to glimpse the armored fiend walking among them. For a moment the regret returns. He is struck by the urge to explain. The need for someone, anyone, to understand the reasoning.

The voice ever mocks him. Its slithering hiss cuts through the falsified memories, reminding him of _his_ deal. _His_ bargain. _His_ choice. This is what he asked for, it tells him. No price would he not pay. No deed would he not do, if only. . .

The words lash at him, and the audible grunt that escapes his mouth is enough to send a nearby child behind its Mother's knees. He shakes his head. Maintaining control is becoming more the challenge with each passing day. Soon or later it would conflict with his station and then things will become difficult.

When the Judge steps into the hovel, the old man almost looks relieved. The others less so when they quickly take their leave.

"Ah, the new lord," the man calls warmly. No point in questioning how the old man knows of his new rank already. Some things never change. The old man himself is proof enough of that. "Sit, sit." the old man says, shuffling him towards a chair.

"I was amused by the name," the old man continues. "From hunter of rats to holder of snakes. But very difficult to spell," the old man smirks stubbornly.

The Judge watches him warily. Even now, after all these years, are his motives hidden. The old man was no traitor, of that much he was sure, but the information he had provided had been critical.

"Why?" the Judge cannot help but ask, hating the stench of mystery.

"Hah! So many O's and U's. Too much for the likes of me," the old man cackles.

"Why did you help me?" the Judge asks again.

"Oh, a harder question. I hear," the old man says. "Many reasons, but mostly profit. You pay well." The skirting tone belies the old man's meaning, but there lies little room for a direct answer.

"I doubt you would sellout your own people for such small fee."

"My, what a proper tongue you've grown!" the old man laughs. "Serving an Empire causes that, does it?"

This is pointless, the voice whispers. This one enjoys his games too much.

"Suit yourself, old man," the Judge stands up.

"Hold yourself, boy," the old man gestures for him to wait. "There is news you might like to hear. Mayhap about a treasure missing, hm? A treasure that was not where she should have been?"

The Judge glares. Perhaps the old man is just a little _too_ well informed.

"Thought so," the old man seems pleased with himself. "Pirates are nasty business, no?"

"Where?" the Judge asks fiercely.

"The floating city, where else!" the old man speaks quickly. "Safe from you, too."

The anger comes quickly. The old man's game is revealed. He should have expected no less, but part of him—however briefly—had enjoyed the thought of having at least one other on his side. If only for the absurd novelty of it.

"You are wrong, old man," the Judge warns him gravely. "My fleet could tear that city from the sky, if I wished it."

"But that is a wish you won't be making. Else them senators of yours might start making some wishes about you, hm? The Marquis' ties run deep, and deeper still run his mines. His city is safe enough from you, I should think," the old man laughs so loudly even passers by are startled.

Unexpected even to himself, the Judge does not kill the old man like he knows he should. Dead people cannot be proven wrong. Dead people cannot have their hopes foiled, or their dreams crushed. No, killing the old man would be paramount to losing. The Judge was not about to do that. The old man would see him win. The old man would hear the screams. The old man would _know_.

-

The Castle is quiet, and the Judge sits alone. He has been deceived. He has been toyed with. He has been denied. His had been the guile that had dethroned an Emperor, subjugated a kingdom, and emboldened the minds of its people. To then be _tricked _by an old man who could barely walk was . . .aggravating.

Watch. Learn.

Those had been the first of words of the voice to pierce his mind. Now he was hearing them again. The old man had been right. As a Judge, he could not openly move against the Marquis. The Senate would be in arms, and immediately send for his head. However attractive, force was not an option.

At least not yet.

A plan slowly forms. He does not rush it. It takes root, and his mind is sent back to a place long ago. A village far removed. Where—unknowingly, unsuspectingly—a pirate's former life lays bare. One sibling disapproving, but the other oh so eager to see a larger world. All of them bonded by blood and belief.

The Judge stands, there is much to do.


	3. Enduring Generosity

(Square still owns it. -- I had not really intended anything beyond the opening. But I've grown to like the premise, and for now its a fun distraction. But I can't continue with such a weird style. It makes things too confusing for dialog. For better or worse, it'll be more traditional from here out. I'll figure out a proper description someday.)

-

In the coming weeks, things had changed within the Empire's newest vassal state. Trade had flowed freely again with the rest of the Empire. Imperial goods had lined the merchants' shelves once more. Food had become plentiful, the fear of contamination long since gone. The blight itself had become little more then an afterthought. The people had been content.

Then the culling started.

"The guilty need no trial. The innocent need no fear," the Judge had told them. First it had been the criminals. Then the pirates. Then the black-marketeers. Parts of the under city, long known as havens of villainy, had been swiftly cleaned out in brutal, efficient raids. The people had cheered. The city had glowed.

But it had not stopped there. Next it had been the dissenters, the rebellious, and the undesirables. Pauper and gentry alike had been the same before the iron fist of the Judge. To speak out was to slander the rule of law, regardless of station. The traitorous burden even themselves with ill-thoughts, they were told time and time again. The meaning behind the words had soon become clear. Embrace your new life, or be relieved of it. It mattered not.

The palace, too, had changed. No longer was work confined to the rising and setting of the sun. In these times of political uncertainty, sleep was a luxury only the meek and the careless brave could afford. It had meant employing twice as many servants, but the former Kingdom had become a goldmine without the past hindrances of equity and equality to hold it back.

Now, the people were safe. They were fed. They were happy—they were afraid of what would happen otherwise.

-

The Judge slowly ran the whetstone along the blade. It was sharp, but not sharp enough. Not yet.

A full feast lay before him. The table was loaded with all manner culinary delights. Not that it mattered. The only hunger he felt these days could not be quenched by any meal, whatever its extravagance.

His recent trip had gone well. The Jungles of Golmore had hardly changed since his last time beneath the shadowy canopy. Finding the village had then been easy. The Wood's own gifted tear had led him right to it. The village chief had been waiting for him, while the rest of the inhabitants had stayed well clear. Perhaps they knew what it was he sought. It was then that he had been reminded of the _other_ special thing about these Viera. They were gifted in more ways then just one.

The deal had been simple. One sibling or the other; it had mattered not which. He had been feeling generous. After all, it was not everyday that he was willing to trade an entire jungle for a single life of servitude. He had even gone so far as to give the now-former chief the chance to say her goodbyes before they had left. Such kindness was unbecoming, the voice had told him. But he had been tired then, and was tired still.

"You had better eat," he said examining the sword. "You're of little use to me if you starve."

Across the table, his dinner companion said nothing. Servitude did not come easy to her people, and she was no exception. She could not understand why she had been plucked from her home, or of what use she could be to this . . .hume—tainted as he was. The safety of her home had warranted the acceptance of his offer. More and more trespassers had defiled the sanctity of her home as of late. It she could ensure the safety of the Wood by his will, then her duty was clear. Even if it meant she was to become a slave, the future of the Wood would be secure. She would endure.

"Why. . ." she said, suddenly relieving the burden from her mind. "Why bring me here?"

The question was not unexpected. He knew it would come sooner or later. He was just surprised she had waited this long. "Your sister and her companion have become a nuisance to me. One way or another, your presence should be quite the deterrent," he said, setting the sword aside. "It is only a matter of time before that emotional little sibling of yours gets word to them. I only wish I could see their faces when she does."

The Viera watched him. The man's mind was in shambles. That much was clear, yet she could also see something else—something darker lurking behind his eyes. When they had traveled beneath the scorched skies of Giza, she had seen him argue with himself one night before storming off in a rage. She knew of the concept of madness, but to see it first hand was truly disturbing. But somewhere in that fractured mind, beneath that stern grimace of a Judge, there had to be some trace of the energetic young man she had met long ago.

"Once, they were your companions, too, Va—"

She was cut off by the crash of the Judge's fist hitting the table.

"That name has no meaning to me, Viera. You will not utter it again."

-

The throne had been removed. It made things easier. Thrones gave people ideas, the Judge was finding. Best to be rid of the wretched things.

Knowledge was money. Information was power. Fortune was whispered to those who could afford it. These were the stalwarts of the Empire. It was these lessons that he had learned well in the Imperial capital of Arcadia, a city where secrets were bought with blood and strife. And once he'd had a great many secrets to sell.

It was for these reasons that the Judge always took audiences with this man. Ever keen, ever listening, the man known as Jules by name, but questionable by reputation, stood curtly before him. The information he had must be valuable indeed for him to waste time coming all the way out here, the voice whispered.

"I am glad to find you well, your lordship," Jules bowed. "And I would like to see you to continue so, now that—"

The Judge waited. Pleasantries were a part of the game. It was a game every birthed Imperial understood, but his desert heritage made him an impatient man as the streetear prattled on about one ceaseless thing after another.

"—which is what brings me here. I suspected you would be interested our fair capital's recent visitors," Jules finally finished, and folded his arms.

"You speak of. . ."

"That's right, your old _friends,_" said Jules knowingly. "One in particular was looking very regal. She has matured into a fine woman. That pirate has stolen him a nice one this time, don't you think."

The Judge scowled. This was troubling news. There were likely many reasons the former Queen would go to the Imperial capital, but all of them were detrimental to his plans. If she allied with another Judge—or worse yet the Senate—his hand would be forced. He had assumed she would remain in Bhujerba, _hopeless_. An assumption that now seemed quite naive in retrospect.

"What were they doing? Who did they meet?" the Judge asked quickly.

Jules waved his hand. "Not so fast, your lordship. There is the little matter of my rather large fee."

"Whatever, just tell me," the Judge growled. If it would not have been such a waste, he would have had the man thrown in prison for his insurrection long ago.

"They came with knowledge," Jules smiled. "It seems some in the Senate have been careless with their. . . _pleasures_. Naturally, they told this to one they felt would be eager to hear it."

"Zargbaath," the Judge said coldly. "But why, he has no love for Dalmasca."

"Two Judge-Magisters, but only one empty throne. Quite the problem," said Jules.

"That old fool thinks I want to be Emperor?"

Jules looked surprised. _That_ had sounded like money. "You mean you don't?" he asked.

While there were many things the Judge wanted, the Empire was not one of them. Or at least it certainly was not at the top of his list. An Emperor, like any man, would eventually die. "There are things in this world more valuable then Empires," the Judge said quietly.

"So then, you really are barmy for the Queen. . . Imagine that, a Judge pining for a Que—," the streetear suddenly froze. Reason said that no man could have had possibly moved that fast, but the feel of the cold blade at his neck told him otherwise.

"A man with a _family _should watch what he says," the Judge hissed through gritted teeth, "and _especially _who it says it to."

"By. . . by your honor's grace," Jules squeaked in a broken voice, feeling the blade pull away.

The Judge sheathed the sword. He needed to think. Too many people had flirted with death by testing him lately. This could not go on. He had to maintain control. Without fear there was no obedience. Without obedience there was no control. Without control there was no. . .

"If Zargbaath wishes to aid them, then so be it. He is not important," said the Judge. "Neither is the Senate for that matter, but I doubt they will cross me. I know their crimes all too well."

"So what will you do?" Jules relaxed, and absently rubbed his neck.

"The only thing I can," the Judge said putting on his helmet.


	4. Unwelcome Dreams

(Square still owns it. -- I'm still trying new things, just for the heck of it. While I do enjoy it, I'd like to finish this up someday, so it'll probably become a little more direct. I don't _think_ it's broken past the T-rating yet, but it might eventually. Obviously I'm not a fan of proof-reading either, oops.)

_The boy is not in a hurry. He has all night. He plans to savor every moment of it._

_The rain is heavy, conveniently masking his footsteps as he slips unseen along the corridors. There are guards, but they are only hume. They fall quickly, quietly. He moves on. He does not need to be here, no doubt his new allies have many more skilled then he, but he wants to be. He wants to be the one who does it._

_Cause he knows this is the closest he will ever come to revenge. _

_The blade is sharp. There is no sound as it glides through the air. The name is fitting he thinks, pulling it from the guard's cooling corpse. This place is bigger then he expected— much bigger then the last palace he broke into. It takes a while, but he eventually finds the room. It is the largest he has ever seen. The rafters are high, They are perfect. He nods and waits. _

_An Imperial Lord and his ever loyal knight, the two walk together. When they pass beneath him, the boy drops. The blade is out before his feet reach the floor. Surprise is his ally tonight, and he does not aim to miss. The knight is far too slow, and the blade is far too light. The lord drops to his knees; the blood of an empire stains the floor. He is gone before either can react. There is a better place for the fight to come._

_The hallways are dark, but the trail of fallen guards lead his way. The chase provides the needed time. Confusion has to set in. Mistakes have to be made. Evidence has to be discovered. He steps out onto the sky-terrace. The cold rain washes over him, bringing with it a feeling of peace. His heart slows. He needs to be calm. _

_Tonight, the world changes._

_It is not long before he hears the heavy footsteps behind him, and the calls for guards that are no longer there. He readies himself. There can be no mistakes, the knight is too skilled. Make him angry. Make him want to kill you. The boy nods to a voice only he can hear. _

_The fight comes quickly. Despite age, the knight is dangerous. The boy finds himself pushed back time and time again. The edge looms closer. He strikes like a serpent, desperately weaving around the knight's large sword—a sword that had once belonged to someone else. His skin tightens at the thought. The anger is there, waiting. He lets it takes control. He feels himself grow stronger, faster. The knight struggles to keep up._

_The rain weighs on them both, but the boy is unburdened. He learns to adjust. The armor of a judge is strong, but not strong enough. Not tonight. The blade earns its mark. The knight soon bleeds. But the fury rages on. The voice is clear, its instructions are precise. He feels himself slipping further, but he doesn't care. This is what he wants. This is the true face of freedom._

_There is nothing felt when the knight finally falls before him. No pity, no remorse, no enjoyment. The knight tries to stand, but his knees bleed heavily. The boy watches silently. It would be so easy to make the kill, yet he hesitates. He wants a true victory. He wants the knight to know real defeat, to know the pain of absolute failure. _

"_Who sent you. . ." the knight tries to ask across the beating rain._

_The boy pulls the cloth from his face. He then sees the shock, the confusion, and the betrayal all hit the knight at once. It makes it all worth while._

"_I never did get to kill your brother," he says coldly, "so this will just have to do." _

_They are interrupted by the guards. And for a moment all is still beneath the rain. _

"_Seize him," the knight quickly orders. _

_But the guards do not obey, instead their swords point towards the knight. The boy smiles, his new allies have made good on their pact. "Take him below," he tells the guards, "I was too late, the traitor had already killed the Emperor."_

_When they are gone, the boy is left alone. An Empire lays before him, and beyond it a world with no bounds. All was his for the taking. This night would be long remembered. _

With a horrid curse, the Judge sat up. His breath was missing, and his body was soaked—not with rain—but with a cold sweat. Slowly the world faded into light, and he found himself back in an all too familiar room. As his lungs began to work, he guardedly lay back. The warm comfort of the bed eased his mind little. The dream had been vivid. Not even the conscious memory had been that clear before. He could still see the knight's look of utter despair. To be assailed now by such a trifling detail was quite surreal.

The bed was warm, far more so then he could ever recall it being before. Strangely, the room too seemed slightly different then what he remembered. It was far more lavishly decorated then it had been. He could have sworn he had given orders for most of the old furnishings to be removed. Regardless, he would have to see to it in the morning—possibly by killing someone, but all that could wait. Right now, he knew what needed was rest.

It was not until a pair of unfamiliar hands wrapped around him, that he sprang completely awake. He leapt from the bed, and furiously reached for the blade that should have been at his side. Not only was it missing, but so were his clothes. Someone was going to pay dearly for this outrage. When he turned back to the bed, he was taken back by the figuring now stirring beneath the covers.

It was a Queen. Not just any Queen, but _his_ Queen his mind told him. But that couldn't be right. She had rejected him, that memory was still _quite _clear. He had then gone off to find other dreams elsewhere—without her. He had heard the lures of Zodiark, and made his deal. He had killed hundreds, if not thousands since. He had quelled nations, and brought the might of an empire to bear. He had been living free from his past . . . hadn't he?

His mind buzzed back and forth, from one reality to the other. He grabbed his face, and rubbed at his eyes. Could it have all really been just a dream, a treacherous thought soon asked. He slowly opened his eyes, and saw that the crest was gone too. He stared at his unmarked hand. A dream, all of it. . . but that seemed so impossible. Yet, even his scars were missing. Mementos from a thousand victories could not be wiped clean in a mere moment like that. But then—had they ever even been there in the first place. . .

"Come back to bed," he heard her soft voice call. The memories were slipping away now, only to be quickly replaced by different ones. A large celebration. A sword in his hand. An entire kingdom behind him. He could see it all, with each step leading up to the woman that now lay silently watching him. He edged back towards the bed. It had all been so clear. So _real._

The smooth feel of her back, the sweet fragrance of her hair, both warmly greeted him when he slipped in next to her. Those soft eyes that held so much promise, so much endearment, watched him still. Her warmth was unpleasant at first, he felt he should not be used to such comforts. His arms locked around her waist, but the uncertainty pestered him still. With benign puzzlement,she peaked up at him through a sleepy haze.

"Vaan?"

The name hit him hard. Her image was suddenly torn away. The warmth, the comfort, the peace—all vanished within a instant. The darkness returned with a ferocity. His past marched furiously before him, one crystal clear memory after another. Every killing stroke. Every betrayal. Every broken city. Every boisterous moment of enjoyment. Everything he had done, everything he had planned to do—it was all with him once more. It was not _entirely _unwelcome.

When the sun rose, the room was back to how he remembered it. Cold. Empty. Isolated. This reality was undeniable. The Judge lay awake, part of him doubted he had even been asleep. When he finally stood up, the enemy was there. He hastily struck without thinking. The mirror shattered against the weight of his fist. Blood spilled on to his feet. He groaned and then began picking the glass from his hand—why did they keep bringing him these damned things.

A dream within a dream, the voice whispered. Lack of control, lack of focus, both were now evident. The Judge simply nodded, he could manage little else. No longer could he trust his eyes, or his mind. But pain, that would always be real. If nothing else, that would be his guide. He had been too distracted lately. Too many things were going on. Too many people had become involved. He had wasted enough time. An entire world lay beyond this pitiful continent and its petty squabbles.

It was time to claim what should have been his.


	5. Interrupted Recreation

( Square still owns it. I went ahead and marked this M. The violence will eventually get there, if its not already. The last bit flowed about as well as a brick wall. Too much slicing here and there. Maybe this one will read better. These will likely continue to be short. And it was only a matter of time before a little humor snaked in, but I'll try to keep it under control. )

Murder. It was a simple word, and one he was becoming more and more familiar with. It was troublesome in its way, but unapologetically useful at times—like when your allies forgot whose side they were suppose to be on. The Judge stared down absently at the man struggling beneath his boot.

"I'm curious, what did they offer you?" he asked.

The man tried to speak, but it looked like one of his lungs had just collapsed. The Judge frowned as blood was spurted onto the floor. Perhaps he had gone too far. Oh well, it was too late to worry about it now. He could not begrudge the assassin for trying, since technically was still one himself. But it was not hard to guess who had sent the man, few of his enemies had the means to afford such a confident assassin these days. The senate was becoming more brazen by the hour. Just because he really was planning on killing them was no reason to go around _suspecting_ him of things. Where was the loyalty?

The Viera had seen the assassin first, and intercepted an attack that would have no doubt left him with another nasty scar. In a sense, she had _saved_ him. It was a weird, unwelcome feeling that Judge was growing to dislike. He watched on from afar as the resident doctor patched her up. When they left, he continued to watch her as she struggled to find sleep.

"The poison will eventually clear," he said walking over to her. "You'll live."

Before he realized it, his hand gently traced across the Viera's grimacing brow. He quickly recoiled back in disgust. Unthinkable. He was _not_ concerned. Far from it. This woman had no real value beyond keeping her sister at bay. That was all. If she got herself killed then he would be forced to track down the other, far more annoying, sister. That was why her actions had bothered him. Undoubtedly.

-

The Westersands were big and empty. The perfect place to go when the homicidal urges peaked, and the voices grew just a little too loud. Here in this savage desert, a person could really cut loose. For a few brief hours, the problems, stress, and scheming could all be left behind at the city gates. There was freedom here for those that knew how to seize it.

The Judge was running. He wasn't sure why, but it felt good and that was all that mattered for now. He had been cooped up inside that armor for too long. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to feel the evening breeze on his face, and the wind in his ears. It was refreshing. But best of all, it made it hard to think And if he couldn't think, he couldn't remember.

But sometimes running just wasn't enough. Sometimes that primal craving just had to be answered. The wolves here couldn't offer much of a challenge, but they could stave off the pounding in the back of his skull. If only for a little while. But he kept running. There was the smell of blood on the wind, and with it came the promise of something better. Something hume.

By the time he found the caravan, the chaos had already started. Carts were overturned, and fires were spreading. The people had the look of refugees, the assailants of bandits. Just another night in the Westerands. He sat down with the intent of enjoying the show. The people huddled around the carts stunk of cloves. He could smell them from here—_Rozarrians_. To think they were desperate enough to cross the Yensa on foot. Things in Rozarria must've be growing worse. It was a pleasing notion.

The bandits didn't look like much, but then neither did the travelers. Before long, most of the Rozarrians lay dying. The Judge continued watching. It wasn't until one of the remaining children were shoved towards a fire that he felt that little piece in the back of his head snap. The pounding was now unbearable. The beast was restless, and it saw a whole slew of fun in front it.

He quietly counted the bandits while walking towards them. One. Two. Three. Four. _Five_. . . a perfect number. He ignored their shouts, having no words for the dead. They looked clumsy with their bent knives and rusted swords. It was doubtful they had ever faced anything more then a fiend before. Unfortunately for them, there were more dangerous things out tonight.

The first bandit was quick, but had foolishly exposed his neck. The Judge was never one to miss such an ample opportunity. The man's scream soon bled into a gurgle as he dropped to the ground._ Four_. Maybe the wolves would have been more interesting.

A woman lunged at him, but her swing was wild and fueled more by fear then any kind of experience. After knocking her small knife away, the Judge held her tightly as she squirmed in his arms. Another bandit screamed out some haggled obscenity, and rushed towards them. The Judge would have never expected that banditry ran in families. He inhaled deeply of the woman's neck before sliding the blade in between her ribs. _Three. _The feeling of her warm blood on his chilled hands, coupled with the lingering scent from her hair, reminded him of something_ else_ he hadn't felt in a long time.

By now, the woman's Father—apparently—was too overcome by grief to put up much of a fight. He just lay there, tearfully clasping her body until the Judge brought the blade down across his neck. _Two. _Really, the man could have at least made an effort. Unlike with his daughter, there was little satisfaction in taking his life.

A crossbow bolt soared past the Judge and another bandit collapsed at his feet. _One. _When he looked up, the he saw the face of a young woman holding a crossbow in her trembling hands. A Rozarrian. Some of them were still alive after all. The Judge growled angrily. That made _twice_ now in _one_ day that he had allowed it to happen. He would not allow it to become a habit.

The last bandit tried to run away. The Judge cannoned into terrified man as he rounded the corner of one of the wagons. All the running tonight had really loosed his muscles up, he hadn't felt this limber in ages. The bandit struggled, but the Judge quickly fastened his hands around the man's neck and began to squeeze. He watched gleefully as the struggling face went through shades of red, then purple, and finally blue. Eventually the man's eyes bulged, and his inner veins bloated obscenely, but the Judge kept squeezing until the bones snapped. _Perfect._

It not like he felt _great_ when it was all over, but it was better what had been there before. If nothing else, the pounding had ceased.

He stood, and began dusting himself off. The blood he could explain—it was to be expected on a Judge's clothes—but the sand would be an issue. The washer woman would likely comment. And he had enough problems already without earning that old woman's ire. Starched drawers were not a terror he was willing to brave just yet.

Soon there was a woman next to him, it was the one from earlier. She looked terrified, but was trying to hide it. Out of some silent consensus by the remaining Rozarrians, she had been the one sent forward. She wasn't really old enough to be holding the crossbow in her hands, but by the look of it she may have been the oldest of the few survivors.

"Thank you," she said with a heavy accent. "We were lost, when they," she motioned towards the bandits' corpses, "found us. Thank you," she repeated and bowed, giving him a nervous smile somewhere along the way.

The Judge was slightly taken back. It had been a long time since _anyone_ had smiled at him, let alone a young woman. Even the servants at the palace gave him a wide berth these days. But tonight was proving to be odd for a lot of reasons. He continued wiping the sand from his pants, and hoped that the young woman would take the hint and go away. She didn't. Instead she continued to watch him. He soon got the impression she was waiting for something.

"The city is that way," he said, and pointed to the East.

The young woman nodded politely, but still she did not move. Looking around at all the small worried faces watching them, it was easy to see what she was wanting to ask. They were all too young, and the Westersand itself was full of fiends at this hour. Most of their supplies had likely been spent on the Yensa, he doubted they could survive out here much longer with what little they had left.

"I'm headed that way, you can follow me if you like," the Judge muttered, and tried to block out the mocking whispers from inside his head.

"Thank you, but the wounded. Our families—"

"The desert will claim them," he said as coldly as he could manage.

". . . cannot leave them," she said looking down.

"Then the desert will claim you too," he said walking away.

The Judge had not meant to wait for them, but by the time he had found his bearings the Rozarrians were behind him. A cart had been overturned, and was now laden with what looked like only dead weight to him. But then he wasn't the one who was going to be pushing it up hill all the way back to the city.

As they traveled across the desert, the irony eventually hit him. These people were fleeing from a home that had become a festering boil. They were headed to a city had just been invaded. And the man responsible for both was now walking with them through the desert. But he knew these people weren't his enemy. They were neither wealthy enough, nor strong enough to qualify for that. No, these people were the sheep. Nothing more. Just nameless faces caught in the wake of other men's schemes. Other men like himself.

The Judge was still enjoying the thought when they arrived at the city gates. Again the young woman nervously approached him. It was not hard to notice the way she had been warily eyeing the gates ever since they had first peaked over the dunes. It seemed as if part of her was not looking forward to her new life.

"My Father told me the gates do not open beyond the day," she said. "And even then, not likely for us."

"They'll open," the Judge said more as a statement of fact then any sort of weak-willed attempt at comforting her.

Not that it stopped the young woman from taking it as such. She smiled again, and he quietly cursed the gods out of the sheer wretchedness of it all. There was little commotion beyond the normal sort that occurs when sleeping guards wake up to find their commander staring at them intently. The Gates quickly opened. The Judge left the bewildered Rozarrians in the city square, but not before telling them to inquire at the palace about work. It was disgusting to think he was acting in such a reprehensible way.

The palace was just beginning its pre-dawn rituals, and most of the servants ignored him. They only recognize the armor, he thought blearily. Which was useful when he wished to leave unquestioned, but damned annoying when they kept getting in his way. This was the path to weakness, the voice told him over and over on the way to his quarters. He had to agree. Even if they weren't his enemies, it was still no reason to go around _aiding_ people like that. A soft heart would only see him to an early grave now. He had too many enemies for it lead anywhere else, really.

The upper floors of the palace remained barren. Even the most stalwart of servants did not dare to come up here any more. This was his territory, the territory of a Judge. He stalked quietly over to the Viera's adjourning room. Part of him was not keen on the idea of checking on her, but he figured he had earned that much tonight. And it was not like anyone would ever know.

He was wrong.

The Viera was not alone. There, in the corner of the room, sat another woman. The Judge tiredly reached for the blade, but then thought better of it. There wasn't much of a point. If she was _here_, then technically that meant he had already _won_.

An assassin one day, a Queen the next. The Senate really had become desperate.


End file.
